


Restless Nights in Petersburg

by dancinginthetardis



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Comfort fic, Gen, M/M, Mental Illness, PTSD, War flashbacks, but sweet ending, historical setting, pretty in character, takes place after canon, trigger warning: PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 13:12:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12109458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinginthetardis/pseuds/dancinginthetardis
Summary: After Anatole was banished to Petersburg, his sole companion was his best and truest friend, Fedya Dolokhov. But Anatole is now learning that there may be more to the fierce veteran of war than he previously thought.(Romantic or platonic? It's up to you)





	Restless Nights in Petersburg

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, gonna keep this short. Anyways I don't actually upload the fics I write but I was really quickly inspired by a ship I just started loving, I.e Danatole. This was written in an hour so just take it to sedate your danatole needs. One shots are the best shots! Thank you very much for reading!

There were the nights. When they were swaddled in their blankets and each other, when the moon rose high and the world was silent. Sometimes, too often it was alarming, Anatole would be roused to the terrified sobs and the shaking shoulders of his dear Fedya. It was horrible and he hated it. He felt supremely powerless and as though he had somehow let him down. 

Tonight, like many a time before, he was stirred awake from the wracking sobs that made his heart sink before he even turned to look. Dolokhov writhed and shook, tears cascading down his cheeks and dampening the pillow he clutched like a vice. Anatole pushed himself up and felt his own eyes well as he bore the pitiful sight of his dearest friend in so much torture. 

"Dolokhov, mon ami, please get up. I cannot help you if you do not wake." He whispered, knowing his attempt were fruitless. He extended his arm and brushed some distressed hairs from Fedya's wet face as he continued to sob. 

"Please, Fedya, I'm sorry I cannot stop this from happening but you need to let me try. I can't- I can't keep living with this." He pleaded shakily, his voice breaking. He felt useless and dumb, unable to help, unable to understand and Dolokhov did not even know that he knew. Anatole's own torment didn't even come so much from his sleepless nights of fruitless comforting, but more so from the mental and emotional agony of seeing his best friend in a constant loop of torture from his own past. The war broke even the strongest of men, Anatole thought sadly. And there was none, in his opinion, who were stronger than Dolokhov. He could not even begin to imagine what horrors had caused him to break. 

Yet his pleading did nothing. Dolokhov, the poor man, still breathed raggedly as tears continued to squeeze out of his eyes. Anatole stroked his head and whispered words of assurance and kindness, until after a few moments something happened that had no precedent. As Anatole continued with his acts of comfort, Dolokhov's breathing slowed almost imperceptibly, and suddenly reached out his hand blindly to clutch Anatole's wrist. 

Anatole's own breath caught in his throat, but allowed the man to cling to him like a lifeline. Then he swallowed and maneuvered himself to get closer to his friend so that he might embrace him. When Anatole was positioned, he hugged Dolokhov close to his body, letting the last of the tears flow freely and stain his silk undershirt. And Anatole, in all his pristine and proud ways of appearance and fashion, did not care a bit. The only emotions he felt were pain and sympathy, gratitude to the heavens that he may have helped, and a fierce, deep-running protectiveness that promised to care for this man always in even a fraction of the way that Dolokhov had always protected and looked out for him. Those were the thoughts that ran through his mind before drifting off into a exhausted slumber, never once relinquishing the grip on his dearest and most beloved friend. 

**** 

The next morning Anatole woke from the sun streaming through a crack in the curtains of their shared room. He blinked blearily for a moment before noticing that the other side of the bed was cold and empty. He shot up, panicking for only a moment before he heard a scuffling in the kitchen and his shoulders sagged in ashamed relief. 

He lifted himself from their bed and tied his robe on top of the bedclothes before slowly creeping into the kitchen. There sat Fedya at the table, his hair and attire rumpled, his head in his hand and the other pouring a heavy glass of vodka. The sight made Anatole's heart sink. But for once, he did not deter him from indulging in himself this early. He figured that he deserved it. Fedya deserved everything, all the peace and contentment on earth, and Anatole wanted nothing more than to give that to him. But alas, such things are not as easily said than wished, as he had miserably come to learn. 

"Good morning, Dolokhov." He greeted instead, coming over to the man and smiling kindly. 

"Anatole." He responded gruffly, gazing up at him with eyes somehow more tired than he had gone to bed with the night before. His eyes seemed deeper set and the shadows under them darker, with small, faint lines present in the corners. Anatole's smiled wavered as he noticed, and he placed his hand on his shoulder. 

"It is a new day, my friend. The sun has risen and it beams down on Petersburg with promise. Shall we explore the treasures the city may present us with today?" 

"In a moment," Fedya sighed. "I need some time to prepare myself, I'm afraid. I regret to say that this body has not received your memo of exciting rejuvenation. Please get yourself ready for whatever it is you wish to do. I shall follow after my drink." he said, dismissing him. 

"Very well." Anatole accepted, smiling gratefully, squeezing his shoulder and turning to leave. 

But Dolokhov stopped him suddenly, grasping his wrist so that Anatole could not go away. Anatole raised his brows in surprise but did not fight the man, who had not even looked at his actions. So for a moment or two Anatole just stood there with his wrist in Dolokhov's grip, as he did not remove his tired face from his free hand. Then, Anatole, instead of trying again to leave, pulled out the chair next to them only inches away and sat down next to his friend. 

Then it was he who changed the hold on his arm, sliding his grip to entwine both of their hands together, hanging down between them. Dolokhov raised his head to stare at Anatole, but Anatole only looked out of the window opposite to them, not meeting his eyes. At that moment Dolokhov appreciated greatly that he did not have to confront or muster up any adequate expressions or words. Anatole always knew just what it was that he needed. So he did speak or weep, he just sat at the window, waiting for him. 

All the same, Dolokhov silently tightened his grasp, trying to communicate through unspoken words his immense gratitude for his friend. In response, he got a squeeze back and a caressing stroke of reassurance that warmed his weary soul. 

And in those small, brief seconds of entanglement of merely their hands, it was as though they had been speaking tender words for a thousands lifetimes already. 

Anatole smiled to the birds outside on which he gazed. 

Dolokhov drank his vodka. 

And neither let go for a long, long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading it all the way through, I hope you enjoyed! Please don't hesitate to speak your thoughts, and even if your comment is only a single word it means the world to me. I ADORE criticism and requests are appreciated! Come back soon! -h


End file.
